


Everyday Travesties

by ionthesparrow



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Florida Panthers, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:54:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7314208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A comedy about the tragedies of everyday life. Starring Nick Bjugstad, Kyle Rau, Kyle Rau’s family, Jonathan Huberdeau, assorted Florida Panthers, and a rookie that everyone has agreed is better left nameless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyday Travesties

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thehandsoftime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehandsoftime/gifts).



> Presented with love and affection to thehandsoftime. I think it might be about time for me to retire from writing for you for challenges, because it just about killed me not being able to consult you while writing this. I hope you’ll forgive the errors I almost certainly made in trying to write about your homeland.
> 
> Many thanks to Kelsey for encouragement, bestliars for all things Minnesota, and to Zoe for telling me that only nine pages of this sucked.
> 
>  **Content Warnings:** themes of homophobia, internalized homophobia, homophobic language, discussion of injuries

* * *

 

The radio is talking about a whale. 

Nick is only just barely paying attention. He only half-hears the reporter for the local NPR affiliate speaking, going through his droning list of funding sources. _Such and such information brought to you by such and such foundation._

Nick should give more to charity. It’s part of being a responsible member of the community – _with great power_ , and all that. His mom would be pleased. Maybe he’ll get a bumper sticker out of it. Although, that really would get him grief around the rink for being an old man – a WLRN sticker on his car. Anyway, Kyle doesn’t like stickers on the car for whatever reason. So maybe a window decal. Does Kyle’s dislike extend to window decals, too? Nick’s never thought to ask. “Hey,” Nick starts, “how do you feel about – ” 

But he gets hushed halfway through asking. 

Kyle leans forward and turns the volume up. His hand hovers over the radio dial, protective, like he thinks Nick might try to lower the volume. He stays bent close, in a posture of acute, invested listening. 

Nick glances over, but Kyle isn’t looking at him, and Nick has to look away quickly – traffic is starting to get tricky. Listening to NPR in the car dates back to the days when both of them had to take Civic Life – albeit in consecutive years – as part of the University of Minnesota’s liberal education requirements. Which meant daily quizzes on current events, which meant news radio was Nick’s best friend. And even if those days are long past, the habit has stuck, because NPR is informative, and good for relaxing, usually, when you’re driving home from practice and trying not to let traffic get to you. 

It’s more background noise and habit than anything else now. But he’s paying just enough attention to know the radio is talking about a whale, and specifically, about the lost whale in Biscayne Bay – _Whale Watch 2019_ is the tagline they’re running with. And there’s no reason Kyle should be so worried about missing the report – it’s not like there’s any newinformation in it. The whale is still in Biscayne Bay, where it’s been loafing around for the last three days, much to the chagrin of local boat owners. The whale is still believed to be a Right whale. Marine scientists still do not know why it’s there, or if it’s sick, or when it might turn around, and head back out to sea. 

The Herald is running a poll to name the thing, and for lack of better news the reporter updates them on that. Right now, _Dwhade_ is running neck and neck with _Mr. Oceanwide_. 

_Whaley McWhaleface_ is a distant third. 

“Sounds like that Right whale should have hung a left,” the newsreader finishes, and chuckles the gentle, graying chortle that Nick figures NPR must have patented by now, before he switches to traffic, and starts in on what circle of hell US-1 is currently at. 

Kyle sits back. “It’s stupid.” 

Nick frowns out over the road. He hits his blinker. He wasn’t paying attention, and the exit for home snuck up on him. He has to force his way over, and he throws an apologetic wave at the car he just cut off. “I don’t think it’s stupid, it’s just lost.” 

Kyle shoots him a look. “Not the whale,” he says. “ _Naming_ the whale is stupid.” 

Nick considers that, too. “It’s all for fun. Doesn’t seem any more stupid than anything else to me.” 

Kyle makes a grumbling noise that means he’s filing the topic under things not worth arguing about, and lets it drop. 

Nick takes them down the exit ramp, letting the steering wheel slide through his fingers. Maybe it is stupid to name a whale. Not like the whale is ever going to answer to the name. Not even trained whales do that, do they? Maybe dolphins. Dolphins are supposed to be smart. So, maybe dolphins, but probably not whales, or other kinds of whales, that is, since technically dolphins are whales. So what would be the point of naming it? Isn’t that the whole point of names? To have something to answer to? Anyway, at least it’s something to think about that’s not the fact that tomorrow is game 82. 

Game 82, and most likely the last game they’ll play this year – 

Nope. Nick redirects his thoughts firmly away from that, and back to the radio, which has moved on to reporting on the state of the stock market. Mentally, Nick resolves, for at least the fourth year in a row, to learn something about the stock market this offseason. He has stocks. Or, at least, he has investments, which probably include stocks. Stocks is just sort a generic term, isn’t it? Stocks and bonds. Collateral. Interest. Something, something, diversification, something, something portfolio. It seems important, people talk about it like it’s important. So maybe this is the year he learns to do more than just smile and nod at his financial advisor. 

Gonna have a nice, long summer to – 

Nope. Nick chastises himself again. Stupid to think like that. Stupid to think any way at all about a game that hasn’t even been played yet. He needs to worry about that tomorrow. And to worry about the things he can control – isn’t that what his uncle always says? No use bemoaning losses that haven’t happened yet. 

Someone behind him honks, and Nick glances up to see the light has changed. There are exactly four more traffic lights and one roundabout between him and home. And then he can nap and then figure out what to order for dinner, since it’s his turn, and maybe put the Twins game on. Whole new season for them, lots of reasons to be optimistic. And he will not worry about hockey that hasn’t happened yet, or about a postseason that will or won’t be played, or about Sasha, or New Monty, or Coach, or any of it. At least until tomorrow. 

Fuck, Nick is going to need to think of something to say to management. 

Fuck, Nick is going to need to think of something to say to the media. 

Specifically, Nick is going to need to think of anything at all to say that isn’t: _fuck._

 

 

Nick naps longer than he means to. He dreams of water. He dreams of being on a boat far, far out at sea, bobbing on the waves with no land in sight. 

Subtle, brain. Thank you. 

Nick sits up. The other side of the bed is empty, undisturbed. But that’s normal; Kyle usually naps in the blue room. Nick presses fingers to his eyes to rub away the sleep, and then locks gazes with Ernest, who he blames for all his pelagic dreams. 

Ernest, being a six-foot fiberglass replica of a sailfish, mounted on the facing wall, stares silently back. 

Downstairs, Kyle is cooking. Singing under his breath, one hand using a spatula to push something leafy and green around a sauté pan, the other flipping through the Bauer catalog. He goes quiet when Nick comes in. 

“Don’t stop on my account.” 

Mouth a half-twist, Kyle says, “You don’t even like this song.” 

Nick pulls the door of the fridge open. They’re running low on fizzy water. They should run out to Costco to get more. And chicken breasts while they’re there. Olive oil. Or, actually, they should probably figure out how much longer they’re gonna be in town, before they do any of that. Nick frowns into the fridge, trying to remember what he was looking for. “Why, is it Luke Bryan?” 

Conspicuous silence from the other side of the kitchen. 

Nick shuts the fridge. “You and your ridiculous crush on Luke Bryan.” He shakes his head at Kyle. 

Kyle grins without looking up. “I don’t have a crush on Luke Bryan.” 

What a transparent lie. “Liar.” 

“Well.” Kyle waves the spatula in a vague, reconciling gesture. “You would too, if you had any taste.” 

Nick walks behind him and bends down to kiss his cheek. “I have excellent taste.” 

Kyle leans back into him. “Lucky me.” 

“Lucky you.” Nick stands with his fingers resting on Kyle’s hip. Kyle’s shoulders rest against his chest at a familiar height, and even the faded gray of his t-shirt fits here, among the slate and the white and the navy of the kitchen. A color scheme that mostly exists thanks to a designer and Nick saying, “Sure, yes, that” over and over again. But after this long, the colors feel ordained and right. The only imaginable combination: as familiar as the iridescent shimmer of blue and tawny gold of Ernest’s mock-flesh that greats him every morning. 

And Kyle – an inextricable part of that vista. Just as necessary. Just as set. 

A timer dings, and Kyle moves away. 

Nick settles back against the counter. “You didn’t have to cook.” 

Kyle shrugs. 

“I would have woken up eventually. I know it’s my turn.” 

Kyle shrugs again. His eyes linger on the pan in front of him, not looking up. “I thought, I thought since – you know.” 

Nick knows. Kyle is trying to be nice. Kyle is trying to be gentle. Since this is Nick’s first year as captain. And since this is probably-almost-definitely, going to be the first year they miss the playoffs since 2015. Doesn’t matter how much of it was luck. Doesn’t matter that the deck was stacked against them this year. Those are just the facts of it. No do-overs to hand out, and no awards for _you tried._

Nick’s throat forms into one solid, tight ache, and _fuck_ , he still hasn’t come up with a single goddamn thing to say. 

“Nicky.” Kyle squeezes Nick’s arm. He says Nick’s name like it hurts. He looks up at Nick: all concern and a smile so sad, Nick wants to say _it’s nothing._ Wants to say _it’s fine, everything’s going to be fine_. 

“Go put something dumb on TV. I got this.” Kyle’s hand on his arm is warm. When Nick doesn’t move, he pushes at him. “Go.” 

Their new entertainment center takes up the better part of the wall in the living room, and there are eight different remotes in the bowl on the coffee table, half of which are now probably defunct, thanks to the upgrade. Although Nick has no idea which half. He calls out, “Which remote is it again?” 

From the kitchen, Kyle calls back, “Since when are you seventy-five years old?” 

All that sweetness gets packed away quick. Nick glowers down at the pile of remotes. “Since when does turning on a TV require a degree in rocket science?” 

He hears a scoffing noise from the kitchen, and Kyle appears in the doorway a moment later. He’s still holding the spatula. “You don’t need a remote. Just use the app.” 

He says it like it’s something Nick should know. Nick frowns. “What app?” 

“The universal remote app.” 

Universal bullshit. Nick pats down his pockets. “Is that even on my phone?” 

Kyle’s already walking back into the kitchen. “Just use my iPad,” he says. “It’s on the end table.” 

“Just use the iPad,” Nick mimics under his breath. Of course. Should have been obvious. Probably soon he’ll just have to think _on_ at the TV real hard – and of course, knowing him, he’ll manage to make that open the garage door or turn off all the lights and he’ll have to yell for Kyle to come fix it. 

Nick grabs the iPad, and the first thing he sees on the screen after he unlocks it, is men in their underwear. 

Notboring, functional underwear: underwear that is barely enough square inches of fabric to cover the essentials. Underwear with black mesh fronts, and string bikini sides, and _completely nonexistent_ backs. 

And definitely notboring, functional men. Men with flawless, hairless chests, and lean, boyish muscles. Men with tattoos that ride just above the low, low front of said underwear. Men darting glances at the camera, eyelashes caught mid-flutter, or with one thumb hooked in their waistband, like, _oh, I didn’t see you there, I was just so busy fondling myself._

Nick blinks. Okay. An underwear ad. Or softcore porn. Or both, he guesses. That’s fine. He exits the screen. And by the time Kyle comes in, with one plate in each hand, he’s managed to figure out how to turn on the TV. 

 

 

Before he goes to bed, Nick studies himself in the mirror, and takes an honest inventory: 

Close-set eyes, with dark circles more often than not. Crooked nose. Under bite. Crooked tooth. Scar on chin. Weird divots above his collarbones. Sagging pecs. The shadow of late-season ribbiness. Narrow waist, before everything juts out and goes hockey-shaped below that. Pale thighs with a scattering of ingrown hairs. Bowlegs. Knobby knees. Twiggy calves. Scaly patches on his heels. Hair on his toes. Right foot: missing fourth and fifth toenails. Left foot: fifth toenail, blood blister at the instep. 

In sum, nothing at all like the men on Kyle’s iPad. 

He wonders if Kyle thinks he’s hot. 

Not just the kind of guy he wants to hitch his life to – Nick is many things: kind and responsible and financially-solvent and friendly and game for trying new things. Nick can fix a flat and remember Mother’s Day and grill a steak and pick out a decent bottle of wine. Nick knows that Kyle appreciates all those things, because otherwise there’s no way this thing they have would have lasted eight years now. 

Eight years? Eight years. Jesus fucking Christ. 

But: does Kyle think he’s hot? 

Does he at least think Nick is as hot as he was eight years ago? 

Nick tugs at the sagging elastic of his boxers. Blue and white plaid, and, in the interest of continued honesty, most likely purchased circa 2012. Nick could probably be making more of an effort here. But Kyle – Nick glances over at him – is currently in the bathroom, pissing with the door open, one hand idly scratching his ass, so if Nick’s not exactly scattering rose petals across the sheets, he’s not the only one. 

Nick turns to get a side profile in the mirror. He tries flexing. 

Kyle yawns. 

Nick gets in bed. He closes his eyes. He listens to the sounds of the tap running, and Kyle brushing his teeth, and the click of him turning the ceiling fan on, and the overhead light off. He feels the bed dip when Kyle climbs in. 

Through his eyelids, Nick can tell Kyle has the bedside lamp turned on. He opens his eyes. Kyle has, _What Your CPA Isn’t Telling You: Life-Changing Tax Strategies_ open in front of him, and he already looks engrossed. Kyle gets a perverse amount of joy in doing taxes. Maybe that’s one upside of an early out: Kyle can get as geeky as he wants with deductions and machinations and whatever else goes into it. 

Kyle turns the page. 

Nick is more the type to pay someone to handle that stuff. The amounts of money involved are stupid-scary. Although maybe it’s a good idea to have someone you trust around who can make sure you’re not being screwed over. Useful. 

Kyle turns another page. 

That sounds awful. That sounds like he’s keeping Kyle around because he’s some kind of in-house tax professional. Maybe he takes Kyle for granted? Kyle could walk out at any time. Start some new life. Maybe with an underwear model by his side. 

“Kyle?” 

Kyle hums a response. 

“You know, earlier – when I was using your iPad?” 

Kyle makes another vague noise without lifting his eyes from the page. 

“So you were looking at some guys in some, like – ” how to put this without sounding twelve years old, “ – sexy underwear?” 

Kyle looks up. 

It’s not the porn thing. It’s not. Kyle is a guy. Nick is a guy. Porn is a thing. Granted, porn has been less of thing now that they’ve living in the same place, but still a thing. And that’s fine, that’s cool. But what Nick wants, is a way to ask: you still think I’m hot, right? Even though you clearly like looking at guys who look nothing like me. 

And preferably, Nick would not have to ask that out loud. In a perfect world, Kyle would simply volunteer that information, unprompted. 

Instead, a look of panic is gathering on Kyle’s face. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. 

This wasn’t supposed to be some sort of trap to embarrass him. “I mean it’s fine. It’s obviously fine if you want to look at hot guys – ” Kyle’s eyes go sharp. “I was just – ” Being lame and insecure would not a be a strong finish here. Nick closes his mouth. He reaches out to rub Kyle’s arm instead. “I just wanted to know if you still – ” 

Kyle blinks. The panicked expression recedes, and a look of understanding comes across his face. He closes his book and sets it aside. “Oh. Sure. How about you blow me and then I blow you?” 

That’s not exactly where Nick was going with this, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

Kyle hooks his thumbs in his boxers and tugs them off without ceremony. Once upon a time, they had a No Sex on Game Day Eve policy – but that was eliminated back when Kyle still spent most of his time down with the farm team, and on one of his brief tours with the Panthers, had worked out that No Sex on Game Day Eve would mean they had mathematically eliminated upward of 75% of opportunities for them to have sex that year, which, Nick agreed, was unacceptable. 

But once upon a time, this had all been new, and the idea of passing up any opportunity to fuck was unthinkable. Unimaginable. Crazy. The lengths they had gone to – stealing ten minutes at a time with a chair propped against the door, or driving miles and miles outside the city just to get away from prying eyes. Nick remembers the heat of Kyle’s mouth out under the stars, or the way it had felt to finally, finally pull Kyle’s body against his after months apart. 

Nick remembers how it felt like something welling up inside him, a fierce heat, something almost maddening. 

Kyle moves the pillows around, and settles down among them so that he’s at an angle that won’t tweak Nick’s back. If they’re not grabbing each other with the same desperation, then this, Nick supposes, is the upside: knowing exactly how everything’s going to go, and that if it’s not going to be a revelation, at least it’s going to be good. There’s no awkward shyness about undressing. No anxious false starts. 

Nick moves between his legs. Kyle is casual, not hard, but relaxed. Expectant. 

Nick knows what he looks like. The shape and the weight are familiar. And the warmth and taste are familiar. And Nick knows he’s doing a good job when Kyle sighs and stretches back, and his hand drifts down to rest in Nick’s hair. 

Kyle has a lot of patience for a slow warm up right at the beginning of things, but not at the end, so Nick takes his time here. He listens for Kyle’s small catches of breath, because Kyle’s not much one for talking. He’s so quiet that Nick used to tease him about his stealth orgasms, he’d ask, “You did enjoy that, right?” 

Kyle would swat at him, and mutter, “You try growing up with three brothers.” 

The little hitch in his breathing comes faster now, and even if Kyle doesn’t ever say, Nick knows he likes one of Nick’s hands to cup his balls, or to dip down and rub across his asshole. 

Sometimes, when he’s really far gone, Kyle will pull one knee up, and hold it against his chest. 

God forbid though, that Nick ask. Because if he dares ask, “You want me to play with your asshole?” Kyle’s face will shutter, and, if anything, he’ll stutter out, “I mean, if you want to, that’s fine. I can take it or leave it.” If Nick just goes for it, though, sometimes he can get Kyle to gasp. He can get him to come with a loud groan. Satisfying. Especially after so many times of watching him finish so quietly, lip caught between his teeth. 

Kyle starts carding his fingers through Nick’s hair. Rocking his hips up to meet Nick’s motions now, and this is when he gets impatient. This is when he wants to come. 

So Nick helps him come. He stays still for a moment, after, resting his cheek against Kyle’s thigh, where he can feel the muscle still trembling. After a moment, Kyle reaches down, and links his hand with one of Nick’s. 

Nick feels him sigh. He looks up. 

Kyle looks back, sleepy and content. He grins, slow. And Nick must look impatient, because Kyle says, “Okay, okay.” He lets go of Nick’s hand and pushes at him to get him to roll over. 

He kisses Nick, because he knows Nick likes being kissed, and he moves one hand to Nick’s dick, because Kyle’s a good multi-tasker. 

After a moment, Kyle pulls away and moves down the length of Nick’s body. Nick watches the top of Kyle’s head and appreciates again that Kyle knows exactly what he likes. Nick appreciates the heat and the steady suction of his mouth, and the way his nails run lightly over Nick’s thighs, followed by firm kneading of the muscle. 

Nick closes his eyes to enjoy the quickening slide of Kyle’s mouth, wet heat followed by his fingers. And then the heat is suddenly gone. 

Kyle has stopped. 

Nick opens his eyes. 

Kyle has pulled off. He has his cheek pressed up against Nick’s bent thigh and he’s looking up at Nick. “You thought those underwear guys were hot?” 

Does he think they’re hot? Is this a trick a question? Nick’s not exactly at his sharpest. And in this moment, if he were pressed for honesty, he would say his priority here, is figuring out what response will be the fastest way of getting his dick back into Kyle’s mouth. “Yes?” 

Kyle frowns. “You hesitated.” 

Apparently that was not the right answer. “What do want me to say? They’re underwear models. They’re hot. That’s their job.” 

Kyle’s frown deepens. “I don’t know. I didn’t think you were into that kind of gay.” 

Strike two. “What do you mean, that kind of gay?” 

“You know.” Kyle shifts onto one elbow and flips a hand at him, wrist loose. “Like gay-gay. Like leather or fancy women’s clothing type shit. Like marching in parades kind of gay.” 

Now they’re both frowning. “I don’t know if that’s all really the same thing – ” 

“You know what I mean.” Kyle’s voice is insistent now. “All that super-homo shit.” 

Nick’s penis bobs inches from his face. 

Because he’s an idiot, Nick says, “That’s kind of a shitty thing to say.” And then because he’s really an idiot, he adds, “I think it probably takes balls to do that kind of shit.” 

Kyle is silent. He blinks at Nick, one second, then two. 

“Kyle?” 

Kyle says, “I’m going to go sleep in the blue room.” 

“What?” Nick pushes up onto his elbows. 

Kyle is already getting up. He snags his boxers off the floor. “I’m just – I’m going to go sleep in the blue room.” 

Nick is left alone, in a room gone suddenly very quiet. He looks from the doorway that Kyle disappeared through to Ernest, asks, “What the fuck just happened?” 

Ernest was named during a misguided time in Nick’s getting-to-know-South-Florida era, during which he thought it would be important for him to read Hemingway. He picked what looked like the shortest one, and got just far enough in to realize a) the fish was Jesus. Or the old man was Jesus. Or the boy was Jesus – someone was definitely Jesus, that much was clear, and b) that this thing between him and Hemingway was not going to work out. 

He’d given up, and switched to Jeff Lindsay, and that had gone much better. 

But given his namesake, it probably shouldn’t be surprising Ernest has no good relationship advice. 

And probably, if Nick knew that was going to be the last time he’d have sex for several weeks, he would have made more of an effort to make sure it ended better. 

 

 

The last thing Nick does before dressing for game 82, is check on Sasha and Britts. 

They’re both in the training room, getting ready to spend the game on the stationary bikes, cycling away. They are matching mirror images of each other: Sasha with a cast on his left wrist, Britts with the cast on his right. Both of them are scowling, gazes fixed on the TV screen in front of them that will, sooner than not, be showing them the game. 

The last game. The game that must be won, to give them any hope at all of the playoffs. 

The pair of them make a pretty pathetic sight. 

Losing Sasha at any point would have been bad; there’s no good time to lose your 1C. But the timing of his injury was particularly bad, coming as it did right on the heels of Kempe’s. 

Kempe – who they’d picked up at the deadline, a move that had made Sasha scowl almost as hard as he is now. 

“You can’t just hate him because he’s Swedish,” Nick had said. 

“I don’t hate him because he’s Swedish,” Sasha answered. “I hate him because he's an asshole.” 

This was maybe true, and in fact, circumstances pointed to the fact that Kempe was most likely traded at least in part because he was an asshole. “Okay, but now he's our asshole,” Nick conceded. “And your wing, so we have to love him. And train him not to be an asshole.” 

Sasha looked at him with oblique skepticism. “You can't train him not to be an asshole.” 

“Why not?” 

He shrugged. “Because he's Swedish.” 

Whether or not Sasha could figure out a way to tolerate Adrian Kempe long enough to score a few goals rapidly became a moot point, because Kempe went down in his second game as a Panther with a badly twisted ankle. And during Kempe’s first game back, Sasha broke his wrist going just exactly wrong into the boards. 

Sasha had been going through his rehab with a grim determination that suggested he was completing the tasks of his own, personal Kalevala. And now, from the bike, he glances at Nick with a look that says: _I know,_ and, _I know you know,_ and _I know you know that I know,_ and, _if you love me, you won’t try to talk to me._

So Nick moves on to the next bike, because while Sasha’s injury alone would have been bad enough, they also have their starting goal tender sitting on the next bike over, because Britts had also snapped his wrist, thanks to, of all things, tripping over a carpet runner at Denny’s. 

Nick clears his throat and says, “Hey Britts.” 

Britts glares. Britts is not taking his down time any better than Sasha. 

Britts’ injury left them with New Monty in net. And he was so green, half the team didn’t know anything about him except his name, and some of them probably didn’t know that. 

New Monty still started every game looking like he’d been asked to head off on a one-man Charge of the Light Brigade. But that was nothing in comparison to his first start, in which he had turned a shade of milk-white Nick had never before actually seen a human attain, even in the depths of a Minnesota winter, and had swayed a little, and looked like he might pass out, right there in the locker room. 

Nick had clapped a hand to New Monty’s shoulder, and in the most reassuring, captainly voice he could muster, said, “Sammy. Sammy, you got this.” 

New Monty had merely blinked at him, wide and glassy, taken in the rest of the room staring at him, and, in a squeaky voice that indicated it might already be too late, said, “I think I need to use the bathroom.” 

They all watched his stiff-legged retreat. Then Coach Kelly had looked around, and into that heavy silence said, “Okay, everyone is just gonna have to learn to love blocking shots.” 

To which Aaron Ekblad said, “That is the worst idea I have ever heard. The very, very worst idea – ” 

At which point Nick had had to intervene, and take Aaron aside, and have a talk about how, yes, this _was_ the worst idea, but that it was frightening and uncomfortable to some of the fringe players when there was conflict between player and coach and his vocal objections were just going to make them feel more insecure. 

Aaron had looked at him blankly, as though insecurity in the realm of hockey was an utterly foreign concept, and maybe it was. He’d said, “I'm not breaking my ankle just because that kid can’t stop a puck.” 

And that had turned out to be true, because two days later Aaron had separated his shoulder and was out for the saddest stretch of 16 games in Nick’s memory to date. 

For Game 82, their IR list has whittled down to just Sasha and Britts, but that’s bad enough. 

On Nick’s way out of the room, Dave the trainer shakes his head. “Bad things come in threes,” he says. 

“Don’t be superstitious,” Nick answers, but he makes sure to walk clockwise around the logo on his way out to the ice, which everyone knows is lucky. 

 

 

Nick Bjugstad’s season ends five minutes and forty-seven seconds before the Panthers’ does. 

They need one more to tie it. Nick fights his way to the front of the net, shoulder hard up against the defenseman, sweat in his eyes, a blur of color, and the last thing he sees, is Jonathan Huberdeau near the top of the circle, winding up. 

The next thing Nick knows, his body is white-hot fire, and he’s flat on his back, making some sort of pitiful, gurgling noise. 

Nick is reeling, swimming in pulsing waves of red. The noises around him have a murky, underwater quality. He squeezes his eyes shut, because a vague awareness is setting in that 18,000 people just watched him take a nut shot, and 18,000 people are now watching him curl on the ice and cradle his testicles. 

More, a distant thought suggests, if the cameras are on him, and you count the people watching at home. 

Nick has no desire to open his eyes. 

Cutting through the throbbing, he hears Jonny scream, _“Blow the fucking whistle, you striped shit stain, he’s hurt – ”_

That’s bad. The thought drifts in strangely slow, that Nick’s gonna have to apologize to the refs for that one. He manages to sit up, and it feels like some part inside of him has torn loose, like things that are not supposed to grind together are grinding together. 

Nick focuses very hard on not puking. 

He gets to one knee, and then the trainer is there. Dave is saying something, prodding him. Nick tries to answer, but it comes out sounding like mouthguard mush. He hopes it translates to: _get me off the ice_ , because what he actually vocalized was probably more like: _geffffffffffff_. 

He needs to get up. His team will be worried. Kyle will be worried. Nick gets up, bent at the waist, but up. He grits his teeth, he tastes something metallic in his mouth. Bit his lip, maybe. 

There’s a new flavor of bile, behind his back teeth. Fucking ridiculous – a nut shot – game 82 – fucking ridiculous. 

He’s helped forward. He sees a set of worried eyes in an opposition-colored jersey, and the guy says, “Oh, _man_ , that really, really sucks. Sorry.” Never good when you’re getting condolences from the competition. He catches sight of stripes out of the corner of his eye, tries to pause, to say, “Sorry, Jonny didn’t mean what he said – ” 

But there’s someone waiting for him at the mouth of the tunnel. Steady pressure at his elbow urging him onward, “Come on, Bjugs. Come on.” 

Nick hooks his arms over their shoulders. 

The last thing he hears from the bench is Kyle, voice ringing out over tapping, clattering chaos, saying, “You Quebecois fuck. I am going to _murder_ you – ” 

Great. 

 

 

Dave stands in front of him and shoves Nick’s hockey pants down. With very little ceremony, he cuts the tattered remains of Nick’s cup away and whistles, low. “Jesus, what a shot.” 

Maybe, one day in the future, Nick will once again appreciate Jonny’s hockey prowess, but today is not that day. 

He moves on to getting rid of Nick’s Underarmour shorts – quick, long cuts with his paramedic scissors. “Okay,” he says. “So the good new is, the boys are both still there.” 

Nick whimpers. 

Dave’s head bobs in front of him, and then he shoves Nick back onto the table. Now, Nick can see the game on the screen behind him. Started up again and four minutes left, play still in the O zone. Ek and Matheson holding the line. 

“Does this hurt?” The trainer prods something. 

Everything whites out for a second. Nick comes back to himself gasping. 

“Gonna do a quick ultrasound, want to make sure nothing’s ruptured – ” 

“The game,” Nick manages. There are just over three minutes left. He can still get back out there. “Hurry.” 

“Son, if something’s ruptured – ” 

“Please stop saying ruptured.” Tro catches a pass, but gets knocked back to the outside. The puck slips back up ice – 

“We need to make sure you’re not bleeding somewhere you shouldn’t be. If there’s a rupture – ” 

With increasing desperation, Nick says, “ _Please_ stop saying rupture.” He glances down. Dave’s face is inches from his testicles, which are, disturbingly, growing more lopsided by the second. Dave’s fingers work with a professional grace. The magic of blue latex gloves keeping everything clean and impersonal. All the same, probably the closest a straight man has been to Nick’s junk since he was circumcised. 

Nick looks back up. One hundred forty seconds left to score. New Monty sprints for the bench. 

“Or displacement,” the trainer says absently. He jams an ultrasound wand against Nick’s balls with what feels like incredibly undue force. 

Nick grunts. 

“You gonna puke?” 

Now seems like a time for honesty over pride. “I might.” 

“Aim for the trashcan.” Dave pauses to shove two horse-sized pills toward Nick’s face. 

Nick knows what those mean. Those mean he’s done for the night. He glances once more at the screen. One hundred three seconds left. But if they score, he could be out there for overtime. “Not yet,” he says. “Not yet.” 

He watches the trainer’s face, whose eyes are on the black and white image on the ultrasound screen. 

A minute. Nothing on the ultrasound screen is readable to Nick. Instead he watches Jonny, circling, circling – 

He needs someone out front. 

Forty seconds. Thirty. 

Nick clutches the pills in his hand, staring at the ice, at the blur of red jerseys, at the puck, like if he wills it hard enough he could effect change. Push it into the net with the force of his want. 

He watches the puck skip, hop, and roll its way past the D, one long shot and it’s down, sliding home squarely into the empty net. 

The feeling is not unlike being punched. 

Those last seconds go slow. 

Nick pops the pills. 

He hears the trainer say, “As soon as I make sure it’s not ruptured, we can ice it.” 

Nick’s vision is starting to go blissfully gray at the edges. “Please stop saying rupture,” he mumbles. The colors flashing on the screen look very far away. He closes his eyes. The quiet, though, after the buzzer, tells Nick everything he needs to know. 

 

 

When they finally make it home, Nick staggers to the couch. He lowers himself down and groans. Everything between his navel and his knees is one, dull ache. 

Across the room, Kyle is ditching the remains of his suit. The jacket is tossed over the back of a chair. He comes over and he starts to tug the ice pack away from Nick. 

Nick holds on for a moment, confused, until he figures out Kyle has fresh ice in his hands. His thoughts are coming slow, foggy. 

Kyle kneels in the space between the coffee table and the couch, right by Nick’s head. He’s still shower damp, and Nick can smell his shampoo. The cuffs of his shirt are rolled up, tie still on, but hanging loose and askew. “Do you need anything? You want anything?” 

Nick wants not to be nursing a ball the size of a grapefruit with an icepick ache in his groin. He wants their season not to be over, but here they are. He shakes his head, then amends, “Sit with me?” 

Kyle rocks back on his heels and pulls his tie the rest of the way off. He balls it and tosses it toward the table, and then, urging Nick up for a moment, settles on the couch, arranged so that Nick can rest his head in Kyle’s lap. 

Nick sighs. The stillness feels close all around him. He can hear the hum of the AC kicking to life and outside, he can hear the cicadas singing and the wind through the palms. Kyle pets his head in slow, rhythmic gestures. He clears his throat, and Nick braces, wonders what he’s going to say – about the game. About the season, which is now over. If there’s anything to say at all. Nick certainly hasn’t figured out what it might be. 

“I’m sorry about last night,” Kyle says. 

Nick turns his eyes up to look at him. He’s tired and it’s late, but why not have this conversation late at night? He’s still a little stoned, but why not have this conversation stoned? The light in the kitchen is on, but not the one in here. It’s hard to see Kyle’s face. But the lines of it are familiar enough to know he’s frowning. “I didn’t mean to – ” Words still aren’t coming easily. Nick didn’t mean, anything, really. He’s still not sure of what really happened, “ – to pry,” he finishes. Lame, but better than nothing. 

Kyle sighs. He lets his head thump back against the couch. He keeps his fingers moving in Nick’s hair. “I know. I – ” His voice sticks. He shifts under Nick, and lets out a low, awkward chuckle, that Nick recognizes as him stalling, recognizes as the sound of Kyle’s nerves. The way, ironically, he says, _don’t laugh at this._

“I – ” Kyle swallows and tries again. The laugh comes again. But finally, “I don’t know. I was thinking about buying that underwear. That you saw.” 

Nick is not entirely sure he heard correctly. 

Nick twists to try to look him in the eye. “Wait – for you?” 

In the decade-plus that Nick has known him, Kyle has never worn anything other than boxer-briefs that come in three-packs from Target. Underwear that comes in gray, black, navy, and burgundy for when you’re feeling particularly wild. Underwear that represents the Scandinavian ideal of utility and thriftiness. This is – not that. 

Kyle looks away. “I know. It’s dumb.” 

It’s not dumb so much as it is hard to picture. “It’s not, I mean – ” This is all very foreign territory. Nick wants to ask, are you sure we’re talking about the same thing? Nick wants to ask, are you being serious? 

Maybe Nick has passed out. Maybe Nick misheard. He shifts again to get a better look at Kyle’s face, sending something cold and damp slipping down his leg. And, surely this whole conversation would be easier if Nick wasn’t balancing an ice pack on his nuts. If he could just focus. “I’m just – surprised? I never pictured you in something like that.” 

For a long moment, Kyle doesn’t say anything. Long enough for the sound of the AC to die. Long enough for rain to start up outside, coming down sideways, and making its presence known against the windows. Kyle clears his throat, and then he says, “I don’t know. Sometimes I wished I looked – more like that.” 

Nick is still looking at him, but Kyle’s eyes are aimed away. “Like what?” 

Kyle moves his hand away from Nick’s hair, and now he picks at the skin at the edge of his nails. His eyes refuse to meet Nick’s. He shrugs. “Prettier, I guess.” 

“Prettier?” Nick can’t keep the sharpness of surprise out of voice. 

“God. That’s not the right word.” Kyle rolls his eyes at himself. “Forget it.” There’s a softness in his profile. Something about the way the low light is hitting him, or about the shape of his mouth that makes him look young. And with his eyes lowered, he looks gentle in a way Nick knows not many people get to see. In a way that makes Nick want to tear apart anything and anyone that makes him hurt. Kyle shrugs again. “I know it’s not, like – ” 

_Possible_ , Nick thinks he was going to say. Nick _knows_ he was going to say, with a certainty that makes his heart squeeze in his chest. “You can be pretty. If you want.” 

Kyle looks down at him with a skeptical expression. “I think most people would disagree with you.” 

“Well, fuck them,” Nick says, more vehement then he meant to be. 

Kyle frowns, concerned. 

Nick wants him to smile. The only thing he needs in the whole world, is for Kyle to smile. Nick clears his throat. “Tell them: only god can judge me, who the fuck is you?” 

Kyle watches him for a long moment. A slow grin curling his lips. He shakes his head. “Okay, I _know_ it’s time for you to go to bed when you’re quoting Young Jeezy at me.” 

“He speaks the truth,” Nick says. 

“Sure, sure.” Kyle rolls his eyes. But he’s smiling. 

 

 

In the morning, Nick relocates from the bed to the couch, and feels solidly that, with this action, he has accomplished what he needs to for the day. He lives here now. This is home. Nick rubs his eyes. His head is fuzzy, which might be the lack of coffee, or might be the opioid hangover. He can hear Kyle on the phone with someone. 

Kyle says, “Still there. No, it’s south of us. South Miami. I don’t know – like an hour and a half with traffic? Why? We’re not going there, it’s not really a thing you can visit.” He pauses, and Nick can hear a woman’s voice, tinny and indistinct. Kyle answers the voice, “I’m not _worried_ about it.” Another pause. “Mom. I’m just following the story. It’s in the news.” 

Kyle’s mom, then. Nick settles back into the couch. 

Kyle says, “Yes, like the birds at Lake Nokomis. Just like that.” His voice gets louder and then he appears in the doorway, holding his iPad. “Oh, good,” he says, when he spots Nick. “Nick’s awake. You want to talk to him?” 

He drops the iPad on Nick’s chest. 

Nick fixes a smile across his face and picks it up. “Good morning, Lynn.” 

Kyle’s mother looks disoriented for a moment, blinking at him through the Facetime window. Then she smiles. “Nick. How are you? Janine said she talked to you last night, but you were high as a kite.” 

Nick doesn’t remember talking to his mom at all, so he must have been. “Well,” he hedges. “You know.” 

“You scared us. But, you’re okay now?” 

“I’ll be fine.” According to Dave, he’s probably going to piss blood for a couple days, but Lynn probably doesn’t want to hear that. 

“What happened?” She narrows her eyes at him, looking exactly like Kyle for a second. “I was trying to get the story out of Kyle, but you know how it is trying to get any information out of him. He just kept going on about some whale.” 

“Oh yeah,” Nick says absently. “The Right whale.” 

“Sounds like it should have been more of a left whale.” She looks pleased with her joke. She’s waiting for him to laugh. 

“Haha.” Weak, but the best Nick can manage. “But I’ll be fine,” Nick repeats. “Just blocked a shot I wish I hadn’t.” 

“I’m sorry, Nick.” Her smile is all sympathy. “And I’m sorry about the season.” 

“Well,” Nick says. “It is what it is.” 

She pauses, the awkward spacing of wondering how long a moment of silence should be. And then, “Kyle said you hadn’t decided exactly when you’re coming up?” 

Nick had, in fact, steadfastly refused to make summer plans until the season was well and truly done, but Kyle hasn’t exactly been chomping at the bit to get back to Minnesota, either. But if Kyle wants him to take the heat for it, that’s fine. 

“You know we’re going to do a big thing for Mike’s 60 th,” she says. “And now that you’re not playing…” 

“Right, right.” Kyle paces when he’s on the phone, and over the last few weeks, Nick has watched him walking around the house with increasingly pained looks, mumbling occasional affirmative and half-aware responses. Many, _many_ details on the plans for Kyle’s father’s birthday party had been faithfully relayed to Nick, although _relayed_ was probably the wrong word. Probably it was more like venting. 

“Why can’t she just pick something?” Kyle said. “Why do I have to listen to ten things she’s already decided not to do?” 

“Uh huh,” Nick says to the iPad. Kyle’s mom can talk about nothing for just about forever, and Nick probably needs to plan his own conversational exit strategy. Maybe he can tell her he needs to go eat. Maybe he can tell her he has a doctor’s appointment he needs to get to. Maybe he can just ditch the iPad back with Kyle. Nick looks around to see if he’s still in the room. 

“It’s going to be so nice to have all four of the boys home again,” she says. “It feels like it’s the first time in forever.” 

Nick freezes, attention riveted back to the screen. 

“All four?” He asks. “Chad’s not staying in Europe over the summer?” That particular fact, Kyle had not mentioned. The fucker. Nick glances back towards the hall, but Kyle is nowhere in sight. 

“He’s – well, he’s between contracts at the moment.” She smiles a painfully Minnesotan smile. 

Fantastic. So Chad will not only be there, he’ll be pissy. Nick keeps his own firm, fixed smile in place. “I should let you go,” he says. “I’m sure you have lots of planning to do. We’ll keep you posted on when we’re coming up.” 

“Sooner the better,” she says, with a bright grin. “Love you, Nick. Get better fast, okay?” 

“Thanks,” Nick says, just as bright. “You, too.” 

 

 

This is an emergency worth getting up off the couch for. So at the Starbucks off 26th, Nick says, “I need you to come to Minnesota with me and Kyle.” 

Jonathan Huberdeau stills, coffee cup hanging at the midpoint of its table-to-mouth trajectory. “This is my private space,” he says. “Nick. You know this is my private space.” 

Nick says, “Jonny. This is a Starbucks.” 

Jonny is unmoved. “This is my Starbucks. This is where I come to not think about hockey, or anything hockey-related. You know that. You know – ” 

“Sure,” Nick admits. “That’s how I knew you would be here. But – ” 

“ _Your_ Starbucks is the one in Coral Ridge,” Jonny continues. “This is _my_ Starbucks.” 

Nick sits down. Jonny gives him a sour look, which Nick ignores. “Okay, but I’m not here to talk hockey. I need you to go with me and Kyle to Minnesota.” 

Jonny blinks. He looks blatantly, obnoxiously to left of him, then to the right, then behind him, as if Nick might be speaking to some one else. 

Turning back to face him, Jonny says, “What?” Then he says, “no. Non.” To Nick’s silence, he adds, “You want me to say it in Minnesotan? _No thank you_.” 

Nick frowns. “Jonny – ” 

“No.” He shakes his head. “Your state is nine months of snow and three months of mosquitoes. Your state thinks jello is an art form. Your state looks like someone was drawing one of those is-it-two-faces-or-one-vase illusions, gave up on the back half, and said fuck it. No. Absolutely not. No.” 

Nick tries, “Coyle will be in town.” 

“I don’t care what Charlie Coyle gets up to during his summers.” He looks pointedly away. 

Nick waits for Jonny to meet his eyes again. “He got more points than you this season.” 

Jonny twitches. “Well. His line wasn't a fucking MASH unit. Anyway, like I said, I don’t care.” 

In that case, Nick will have to go to his big guns. He didn’t want it to have to come to this. He puts both elbows on the table and leans forward. Very slowly, dragging the word out, Nick says, "Rupture." 

Jonny looks pained. 

Nick is being cruel, possibly. Jonny has apologized, more than once. It wasn’t intentional. But needs must. Nick lifts an eyebrow. 

Jonny bites out, “Twenty-four hours.” 

“Three days.” 

“Thirty-six hours.” 

“Thirty-six hours,” Nick says, “and you have to pretend like you want to be there.” 

Jonny waves a hand, dismissive. “Fine.” He lifts his coffee again. “Aside from punishing me, why do you want to drag me to Minnesota?” 

Minnesota is hardly a punishment, but Nick refrains from pointing out Minnesota’s many and varied highlights, since that would take a good long time, and sitting for long stretches is still uncomfortable, and since it would no doubt be wasted effort, given that Jonny is weird. Jonny is the kind of guy who considers _C'etait un Rendez-vous_ legitimate porn and who likes taunting large men into punching him. He’s probably allergic to natural beauty and people who are, you know, nice. 

Nick says, “I need you to come to Kyle’s dad’s birthday party, and run interference, so I don’t murder Kyle’s brother when I see him.” 

A small crease appears on Jonny’s forehead, and Nick can see him running the words back through his head. “Isn't Kyle a twin?” he asks. “What if you got them mixed up, and killed Kyle by accident?” He looks thoughtful. “You know, that would be a really good _Law and Order_ plot.” 

“No.” Nick glares. “Not that one.” 

Jonny considers this. “Maybe you're right. It’d probably be better for _SVU_.” 

“No.” Nick repeats, summoning patience. “Not that brother.” 

Frowning, Jonny asks, “how many brothers does he have?” 

“Too many,” Nick says. “But only one of them is an asshole.” Nick takes a breath. “Only one of them gives Kyle a lot of shit for – ” everything “ – a lot of stuff. Being gay.” 

“That sounds like Kyle’s problem.” 

“Kyle having problems makes it my problem. But it’s you know – ” Nick’s hands twist in the air and fail to explain. “Family. It’s touchy.” 

“Touchy family situations.” Jonny nods. “Sounds like exactly how I want to spend my summer vacation.” 

 

 

They chose their summer rental nominally for being close to the U’s training facility, and for being equidistant from Kyle’s family in the southern suburbs and Nick’s family in the northern exurbs, but in addition, it has the advantage of being a respectable distance from both. 

Love, Nick thinks, is keeping enough distance between you and your family, such that you can be happy to see them when you do. 

The plan is to spend time with Kyle’s family, then a few days at the lake, then hang out with Nick’s mom’s side, then a fishing trip, and by then it’ll be time to help Nick’s dad with his summer hockey camp. 

Kyle has kept his mouth shut about Nick’s financial underwriting of his dad’s camp, but then, Nick has kept his mouth shut about Kyle’s brother, so maybe fair is fair. 

But this townhouse is as good a base as any for all these operations. The master bedroom is just as advertised – all piney greens and warm, cherry wood, and empty enough to make it theirs for a couple months. Kyle has his suitcase open on the edge of his bed, scowling at it. Nick has already crammed all his things into drawers, but Kyle is still less than half unpacked. Nick slouches in a chair in the corner of the room and watches him, his shirt off while they wait for the AC to kick in, holding things up, one at a time, frowning at each of them individually. 

“What?” Nick says. “What?” 

Kyle doesn’t answer for a moment, too busy judging the red material in his hands, and apparently finding it lacking. His mouth purses. “I just don’t know why I brought all this.” 

“What’s wrong with it?” 

“I cant wear any of it here.” 

Kyle is holding a red t-shirt with pink stripes. He discards this and picks up a yellow shirt, looking equally dissatisfied. There’s nothing wrong with it. There’s nothing wrong with any of it, as far as Nick can tell. Nick likes that yellow shirt. He likes Kyle’s shoulders in that yellow shirt. The dip of his collarbones. The narrow cut of it, and the way it makes his waist look. 

Nick lives in in gym shorts and ratty UMN t-shirts in the summer, but that doesn’t mean Kyle has to. 

Kyle lays the shirt on the bed. He runs his fingers over it. Nick watches his hand on the bright fabric, laid against the deep green of the bedspread. 

It doesn’t seem objectionable. It’s certainly nothing that would look out of place in Miami. Although it takes a lot to stand out in Miami, where the people are every shade of skin god imagined, and dressed in every color under the sun. Nick likes going out with Kyle on warm nights, just to watch the crowds. Women and men both in the brilliant red and green of Cachucha peppers, or fleshy dragonfruit purple, or the rich orange of mamey sapote, hiding a sleek, black heart. 

He likes sitting somewhere the air can come in, thick as coffee, and just as sweet with the perfume of rain and honeysuckle and hibiscus. Music pulsing, and the feeling of a storm building, crackling somewhere close and closing. 

He likes being home with Kyle, after. Listening to the warm, wet wind, and the patter of rain on the elephant ears outside. 

He can picture Kyle on those nights, clear as anything, bright as anyone. Although he can’t have started like that. The Kyle Nick met was uniformed just as thoroughly in University of Minnesota t-shirts and gym shorts as Nick is now. He must have changed, but Nick can’t put his finger on when. 

Nick watches the sour curve of Kyle’s mouth, and the way his hands trace over the fabric in front of him. Nick remembers him standing next to their bed in Florida, not long after it’d first been made clear he was going to stick with the team. A similar frown on his face. 

“I need new dress shirts,” Kyle had said. Then paused. “I was thinking about getting some with French cuffs. Would that be stupid?” 

Nick hadn’t been paying much attention. It hadn’t seemed important. Nothing about the moment had felt important. “What? No, why?” 

“You don’t think I’d look stupid?” 

_Cuffs are cuffs_ , Nick had wanted to say, but hadn’t. _Who cares?_ “No,” he said. 

Kyle didn’t look convinced. 

Nick had frowned. “Why are you obsessing over this?” Nick remembers feeling only impatient, and confused about how some shirt could be more embarrassing than, for example, his terrible taste in music. 

Kyle went quiet again, for one beat too long. “Never mind,” he said. “I changed my mind.” 

Nick looked up then. Had finally looked at him. “Kyle, if you want – ” 

“I don’t,” Kyle said. “It’s fine.” 

Later that week, Kyle came home with three dress shirts identical to the ones he had been wearing since college. 

Nick thought they somehow looked sad, hanging in their closet, although he could never figure out why. 

So he’s changed, then. Slowly, and gradually enough for Nick to have missed it. Maybe he should have been paying more attention. 

But of course he’s changed. They’ve both changed. They have eight years between them now, and that has been its own kind of slow evolution: two years of being kids in love. Two years of almost entirely long-distance, non-monogamous. Two years of mixed long-distance and cohabitation, monogamous. And now they’re finishing up two years of shared space. 

Nick wonders what pattern they’ll evolve into next, some new twist to settle into. With his eyes, he traces again the lingering unhappiness around Kyle’s mouth, and it hits him that the new pattern could be an unraveling. If Kyle is unhappy, he could just leave. After all, trapped air gets stale. Still water grows brackish. 

What if Kyle is only staying because he doesn’t know he can leave? Or can’t figure out how to leave? Or is afraid? They have memories together, but memories fade. They have history, but is history enough weight to keep them together? 

Kyle sighs and works the shirt onto a hanger, and puts it away. 

The idea of Kyle leaving is a terrible coldness in Nick’s stomach. He loves Kyle. He loves talking to Kyle. He loves looking at him. He loves touching him. The curtains of the bedroom window are half pulled, and a long stripe of light falls across Kyle’s chest and shoulders. His arms are tan in comparison to his torso, and in his mind, Nick traces over the line of flesh where the two shades meet. He traces imaginary fingers over the muscles in Kyle’s shoulders and back that move when he twists. 

It’s been over a week since Nick got off, even under his own power, since even getting half-hard induces a deep a stab of pain, but in his mind, Nick puts his mouth right over the pulse in Kyle’s throat, tastes salt and sun and skin – 

“…Nick?” Kyle is looking at him, an expectant expression on his face. The one that means he was saying something that Nick has missed. 

Nick blinks. “Sorry, what?” 

Kyle rolls his eyes. “I said, I’m going over to my parents’ this afternoon. Are you still planning on getting Huby from the airport?” 

Nick blinks. “Yeah. I’m gonna get Jonny. Drop him at his hotel and then go sit in an ice bath at the gym.” 

Kyle winces. “Fun.” 

There’s a stone caught in Nick’s throat. “Yeah. Come here.” 

Kyle’s eyes cut over. “Why?” 

“Just come here.” 

Dubious, Kyle makes his way over to where Nick is sitting. Nick leans forward and rests his hands on Kyle’s hips. Nick looks up looks up at him. “You look good.” 

Kyle looks like he thinks Nick maybe took a puck to the head instead of the nuts, but he steps in between Nick’s knees, and places his palms on Nick’s shoulders. 

Nick takes a tighter grip. “You do,” He says. “And the state of Minnesota produced Prince. It can handle you in a fitted shirt.” 

Kyle grins down at him, a bright flash of something happy over the earlier sadness. His hand traces a quick, warm touch to Nick’s cheek. “Go get Jonny,” he says. “You’re gonna be late and I don’t want to have to listen to him bitch.” 

 

 

Jonny’s too hung over to do much bitching. When Nick picks him up, he has on dark glasses, his collar is half tucked into his shirt, and he’s sporting two days’ worth of stubble. “Just be recovered by tomorrow afternoon,” Nick says. “I need you to be charming.” 

“I’m always charming.” Jonny hasn’t opened his eyes the whole trip. “Parents love me.” 

Nick snorts. Although, parents do, in fact, like Jonny. Everybody likes Jonny, which is some sly bit of magic he does that Nick still hasn’t figured out. People like Nick – but Nick is, in general, respectful and polite and conscientious. When you grow up a foot taller than everyone, you learn to be cautious, lest you hurt someone without meaning to, and you learn to be nice, because you’re already going to be seen as imposing. 

But Jonny is neither cautious nor polite. Jonny is competitive and loud, smug and occasionally selfish. And yet somehow, even when he’s smirking at you, you’ve already forgiven him. 

Jonny also keeps close tabs on his friends, and so when they drive past the gym Nick is headed to later, Nick points it out. “That’s the gym.” When this gets no response, he adds, “Where Charlie works out, before he heads back east.” 

“So?” Jonny says, but he does lower his sunglasses to watch it go by. 

“Tomorrow,” Nick repeats. “I’ll pick you up at three. Oh, and if you want something to drink you should bring it yourself. BYOB.” 

“You’re kidding me.” 

“Kyle’s parents aren’t big drinkers.” 

“God.” Jonny says. “ _God_.” 

 

 

The gym is pleasantly uncrowded. It’s always exciting to have a minimum of new faces around when you’re trying to soak your abnormally-sized testicle in an ice bath. 

He does run into Mike Russo on the steps outside. And a part of Nick will always love this – knowing wherever he is in the Cities, odds are he’s going to run into someone he knows. It’s a big small town like that. And hockey circles are even smaller. “Russo,” he hails. “Stalking someone in particular, or just trying to get any old interview?” 

“Hey Bjugs.” He looks genuinely happy to see Nick. “Got a sit down with Brodin scheduled. Waiting for him to finish up.” 

Nick shakes his hand. “Don’t you ever take time off?” 

“Well, not everybody’s season is done yet.” He winces. “That came out wrong. Sorry.” 

Nick shrugs. One of the stranger parts of his job, one of the biggest bits of permanent adolescence, is the way he is consoled with a game or a season doesn’t go well. Does that happen in other jobs? Do other people hear: _sorry you didn’t close that sale, sorry you lost that case?_

Maybe they do. At least from friends, if not from strangers. There’s just more attention spotlighted on sports. But Nick is supposed to be trained not to see all that. Not to listen to it. Not to look ahead, and not to dwell on the past. Never get too high; never get too low. Sometimes it feels like everything else in his life is watercolor against the photographic crispness of what happens on the ice. 

That’s probably why guys have a hard time stepping away from the game. Everything around them is a complete unknown, because they haven’t really seen their surroundings in years. 

Russo is still looking at him with a pained expression. 

Nick smiles to say, _no hard feelings_. “How’s Allison? The kid?” 

“Good,” Russo answers. “He’s crawling, and she’s looking forward to going back to work. How’s Kyle?” 

“Doing fine. He’s finishing the unpacking while I slack off.” 

Russo laughs. “He still hate me?” 

“Hate’s a strong word,” Nick hedges. Kyle has treated Russo with a certain cool disdain ever since Russo published a blog post in 2010 in which he referred to Curt Rau as “a disappointment”. A grudge which has served as a living reminder to Nick as to why he should keep his mouth shut about Kyle’s brothers. “You know how he is about the press.” 

Russo laughs at this, too. “We’re not all bad.” 

Nick shrugs. “Well. You know how it is.” 

Russo smiles with a blank sort of compassion that says he thinks he does, but he really, really doesn’t. 

Nick claps him on the shoulder. “See you around, Russ.” 

Inside, he sees Brodin, hustling for the door. 

Brods catches sight of him and his eyes light up, “Bjugs!” He throws a wave. “I’d stop, but I’m late, I – ” 

Nick nods back at him. “I saw the shark circling outside. We’ll catch up soon?” 

“You know it,” he says, and disappears. 

Nick makes his way to locker room facilities for a good, long torture session. “Cold is the best thing for bringing swelling down quickly,” Dave had said. 

To which Nick had answered, “So it’s a choice between a swollen ball and a frozen ball? Talk about being between a rock and hard place.” 

Dave had just stared at him, as if trying to figure out whether Nick was trying to make a joke about erections, and to let him know he was old enough to be above such things. 

Nick said, “Never mind.” 

Soaking in a cold tub is an exercise in, mainly, mental discipline. Which is to say, the discipline of pretending to be somewhere else. The worst part is lowering yourself in: there’s no getting around that, but once you’re there, the best thing to do is pretend you’re somewhere else. 

For this purpose, Nick has his earbuds in. David Manis is narrating _A River Runs Through It_ and Nick fixes his eyes on the ceiling tiles and imagines a trout stream. The thick, shaded dark of a fishing hole, the pressure of the water against your waders. Dappled sunlight. The feeling that there’s no one else in the world, just the forest breathing, and the rush of water – 

To his right, something clatters. All at once, the ceiling tiles are just ceiling tiles again, and Nick is numb from the waist down. He sighs, and glances over. 

A kid in gym gear is straightening a mop and bucket he must have just knocked over. He turns to face Nick. He stands just far enough from Nick for calling out to him to be awkward. Just near enough, and just attentive enough, though, that Nick can tell he wants to talk. 

Nick pulls his earbuds out, sets them casually aside, and waits for the kid to gather his nerve. 

“Hey. I’m Hayden Smith.” He hesitates, edges closer. “Do you – do you have a minute?” 

The name rings a bell, although it takes Nick a second to place him. Drafted this year by Los Angeles. Out of Edina. Somebody’s cousin. Or somebody’s younger brother, Nick can’t remember whose now. Committed to UMN? No, that doesn’t sound right. Maybe Duluth. Not that it matters. Nick sketches a small wave. “I’m Nick Bjugstad.” Which feels strange to say, given that the kid clearly knows who he is, but would feel stranger not to say. 

Hayden just nods. 

“Pull up a – ” There’s not really much around, so Nick gestures to the empty tub next to him. “Pull up a tub.” 

Smith hesitates, just for a moment. Then he climbs into the empty tub next to Nick’s with all the gangly awkwardness of youth, workout clothes and shoes still on. He sits against the back, knees bent close to his chest. 

Nick waits. 

“We met last summer,” Hayden says. 

Oops. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize – ” 

“No, it was – it was just super, super brief. You wished me luck,” he says. “In the Draft.” 

“Looks like you did okay.” 

“Yeah.” Hayden smiles, small and tight, down at his knees. “I wanted to ask you, I heard – ” 

Somebody in a maroon polo walks in, and Hayden breaks off. Together, they watch the man re-stock towels, check the trash, and then grab the laundry bag. 

Hayden doesn’t start speaking again until he’s gone. “I heard you were gay,” he says. 

Oh. This is going to be one of those conversations. 

Which is fine. Nick is a pro at these conversations by now. 

Theoretical gayness was all well and good, and was well accepted, even from the very beginning. Which might or might not have been luck of the draw – Nick being theoretically gay was no problem at all, and made a certain amount of sense, to a team where half of everyone was in love with their former Captain, and the other half was in love with Jaromir Jagr. 

But practical gayness was a slightly different matter. Practical gayness – which is, to say, having real live Gay Person sitting in the locker room – brought questions. And conversations. 

These conversations increased in frequency the longer Nick was in the league, and the more open he was about said gayness, to the point where finally, he had had to make a policy about when and where exactly he would discuss such things. It had worked so well that Nick himself didn’t have to enforce the policy. Other people did it for him. 

Last summer, at camp, Collard, who was one of the fresh-faced rookies, and who was equal parts acne, peach fuzz, and cockiness, had fixed Nick with a look, and said in the same way a colt tests the strength of the rope with which it is tied, “So, you’re gay – ” 

That’s all he got out, before Lawson, two stalls down, said, “No.” 

Collard blinked and swiveled to look at him. Voice still a dare, he said, “I’m asking Bjugs.” 

“No,” Lawson repeated, even and immutable as stone. “You have to ask during Gay Office Hours. That’s the rule.” 

Collard blinked and now he sounded like he couldn’t figure out if he was being fucked with. “What are Gay Office Hours?” 

Lawson drew himself up, looking at Collard for the first time. “Gay Office Hours,” he explained, “are office hours specifically for questions about being gay.” 

“Okay,” Collard said, and paused. “What are office hours?” 

Lawson sighed. Collard was a product of the WHL, and it pained Lawson deeply when the Canadian leagues lived up the NCAA kid’s expectations of them. “Office hours are specific times during the week when you get to ask questions. You can ask Nick anything and everything you want about being gay – no consequences – on Tuesdays, 2-4pm, unless we have that day off, in which case it gets bumped to Wednesday.” He glanced over Nick to confirm this was still true. 

Nick nodded. 

Lawson beamed. 

Collard frowned. “You mean I have to wait until Tuesday to ask?” 

“In general, yes,” Nick said. “Otherwise I have people asking me about personal stuff all the time. But this one time, since you’re new – ” And since by next Tuesday, Nick fully expected Collard to have been returned to juniors, even if Collard didn’t know that yet, “ – I’ll make an exception.” 

Collard nodded. “Okay, so, not to sound homophobic, but – ” 

Tro smirked. “Oh, this is gonna be good.” 

“But how do you decide who gets to fuck who? Like, do you flip a coin?” 

Nick closed his eyes, and reminded himself that he had willingly accepted this mantle of responsibility. 

And questions like that were normal, really. Questions like that were run of the mill. These conversations usually followed a pretty standard trajectory. Although, there were occasional curveballs. Another rookie – who even in Nick’s memory he prefers to keep nameless, had once pulled him aside, and without any indication of shame at all, had said, “I’m just. I’m really attracted to the panther in the logo.” 

“Okay,” Nick said slowly. “I mostly handle gay stuff. And I’m pretty sure this doesn’t fall under the whole gay umbrella – ” 

“Well, it’s a male panther,” the rookie insisted. 

“Is it?” Nick frowned, trying to picture the logo in his mind. All he could think about were the phrases _lower body injury_ and _out for the year._ “Please don’t try to fuck a panther,” Nick said. 

The rookie sighed. “I figured.” 

Nick patted him cautiously on the back. “I’m sorry, I don’t – I don’t even really know what to tell you to google.” 

The rookie sighed again. “What about the mascot?” 

“The mascot?” 

“Yeah, Stanley C. Panther really does it for me, too.” 

Nick took his hand back. “Okay, well now at least I have a better idea of what to tell you to google.” 

But this kid, Nick thinks, looking over at Hayden in the tub next to him, with his legs folded, and his eyes down, looks like he has much simpler concerns. “Yeah, I am,” Nick confirms. “Did you have questions about that?” 

Hayden’s throat works, eyes locked on his hands. The tile around them makes all the small sounds echo, and in the quiet, Nick can hear him swallow. 

It doesn’t matter really, what question he wants to ask. He doesn’t need to say it aloud, because the first question is almost always the same. Different shades of the same color. “It’s okay,” Nick says, in answer to his unspoken words. “It’s not always easy – but it is okay.” 

 

 

The next day, they pick Jonny up from his hotel for the birthday party. Kyle twists in the passenger seat, turning back to look at Jonny. “Why are you in town again? And why did you want to come to this?” 

Jonny catches Nick’s eyes in the rearview mirror, just for a second, then he smiles, wide and bright. “I have so many friends to catch up with up here. I love Minnesota in the summer, and when Nick invited me along I was just so excited, I’ve always wanted to meet your family.” 

Kyle doesn’t look like he believes a word of it. 

 

 

The Raus’ deck is all done up with maroon and gold balloons. Streams wrap the stairs leading down to the backyard, where a long table has been set up. The place is packed with clustered groups, children are darting through the crowd chasing a soccer ball. Nick can see games of cornhole going. And bright summer sun shines down on all of it. Kyle is stolen almost immediately by relatives who haven’t seen him since last summer. Which, Nick supposes, is only fair. But Jonny sticks close. 

Taking it all in, Jonny mutters, “Jesus Christ.” 

Kyle’s mom says, “You’re here! I’m so glad to see you!” 

Kyle’s dad says, “Nick. Son. How you doing? Sorry about the season.” 

Kyle’s twin brother, Curt, says, “My tallest brother! When are we going fishing?” 

Kyle’s oldest brother, Matt, just sketches a wave at him, while running after his oldest, who is bee-lining for the birthday cake just as fast as his three-year-old legs will carry him. 

Chad, Kyle’s most assholish brother, shakes Nick’s hand and says, “Nick.” 

He’s brought back from the Liiga a new scar on his lip and a horrendous spray tan, and his handshake still feels like he’s trying to squeeze the life out of something. Nick says, “Chad.” 

Jonny clears his throat. “How about a drink?” 

Jonny brought enough booze he appears to be preparing for the return of prohibition. He sets his cooler up in a shady corner of the yard. “This is so – ” He gestures at the house. At the yard. Probably at the bright sun and the green grass and the blue sky. “So.” He trails off and finally shrugs. He cracks a beer. “They should film horror movies here. It’s so perfect it’s creepy.” 

Nick squints at him behind his sunglasses. Jonny can be as weird as he needs to be. “Just don’t let me say anything. That’s your only job. Don’t let me say anything dumb.” 

Jonny hums, smirk at the corner of his mouth like he’s already got three jokes primed about how _everything Nick says is dumb_ , and he’s just trying to pick which to run with first. 

“I’m going to go try to find Kyle,” Nick says. 

Jonny, in the midst of commandeering a lawn chair, barely glances up. “Sure,” he says. “Bring me back snacks.” 

A quick circuit of the yard doesn’t reveal Kyle. Nick scans the crowd again, with no success. He plates up chips, dip, and cocktail sausages for Jonny. 

He gets waylaid once or twice, and by the time he makes it back, there are two chairs set up in the shade, and Jonny is sitting next to Aunt Martha. 

“Mint and rum and lemon,” Jonny says, handing her a glass. “You’ll love it. The lemon is the secret.” He winks. 

Aunt Martha, who left her own sixtieth birthday party in the dust years ago, stirs her drink. “What a charmer, you are. You know, you look just like a man I met at the Fairy Congress in 1978.” 

“Is that right?” Jonny leans toward her. “I’ve never been to a Fairy Congress.” 

“Oh, you should go.” One of her hands comes up to rest lightly on his arm. “There are so many free spirits there.” 

Nick frowns. He clears his throat. “Have you seen Kyle?” 

It takes her a moment to look away from Jonny. Nick should have figured his charm extended to septuagenarians, but having to see proof of it is cruel and unusual. “Kyle?” She asks, like she’s never heard of him. “Last time I saw him, Sylvia was taking him inside to show him the quilt she made Mike.” 

“Thank you,” Nick says, and can’t get out of there fast enough. 

In the house, he finds a quilt, a passel of cousins, Sylvia, but no Kyle. 

Sylvia says, “Kyle? He was here, honey, but I think he headed out to go help his dad on the grill. You need to come see Margaret’s baby. Have you seen Margaret’s baby, yet?” 

This is a trap. 

Sylvia takes him by the arm. Her voice lowers. “She’s calling her _Bexley_ , which, well.” Sylvia pauses significantly and cuts her eyes up at Nick. “But, of course, young people will do what they want. They don’t want to hear how old people do things.” 

“Uh huh,” Nick says. “You know, I should actually probably go see if I can lend a hand at the grill, too – ” 

“Oh, I’m sure they have it under control.” She pats his arm. “Kyle said he’d promised to help, so I’m sure he’s out there now. He told me all about some whale, you know.” 

“Ah,” Nick says. 

“Yes, some Right whale. Although sounds like he should have taken a left.” She looks up at him, to make sure he appreciates the joke. 

“Haha,” Nick says. 

“Hey Nick,” Cousin Jeff calls from the stairs. “Glad I caught you. I was just wondering if you’ve given any thought to what you’re doing with your place in Florida over the summer?” 

“Uh,” Nick says. 

“I emailed Kyle about it a few weeks ago, but he hasn’t gotten back to me. You know, I just wanted to let you know, that if you needed somebody to keep an eye on the place. I could head down there.” 

“Oh?” Nick says. 

“Yeah, I’d be happy to. Me and Mark.” He points across the room at Cousin Mark, who waves and gives a thumbs up. 

“Not now, Jeff.” Sylvia waves him off. “I’m taking him to go talk to Margaret. Now if a nice young man like you – ” She squeezes his arm again, “ – told Margaret how much a good, solid, traditional name means to child growing up, I’m sure it would mean so much more than coming from me.” 

Cousin Jeff is twenty, Mark is nineteen. Nick would not feel comfortable leaving them in charge of a lemonade stand, much less his house. And Margaret would punt him across the room if he so much as opened his mouth about the baby’s name. 

“You know,” Nick says, extricating his arm. “I just realized I left Kyle’s hat in the car.” 

“His hat, dear?” 

“His favorite grilling hat,” Nick says. “He can’t possibly grill without it. If you’ll excuse me, just a moment.” 

Kyle is not by the grill, but Nick does finally spot him – at the other end of the deck. He and Curt and Chad all stand clustered, with their heads bent close, apparently watching something on someone’s phone. 

When Nick approaches, Kyle is saying, “Naw, because if I held onto it, he could have put me up against the boards and been gone.” He glances up and smiles when Nick lays a hand on his shoulder. 

Curt nods a greeting. 

Chad ignores him. “So you take a hit, so what? Look where Harper is.” 

They watch the video again, which Nick can only see flashes of, but enough to tell it’s a highlight clip of Kris Letang scoring on them. 

Nick sets his jaw, and congratulates himself for not rolling his eyes. 

“Should have carried it in,” Chad says. 

Kyle shakes his head. “My job there is to just make sure the puck gets deep.” 

Chad says, “Well, your coach is an idiot.” 

Kyle shrugs. “Gallant’s okay.” 

“No,” Chad insists. “He’s an idiot, because you should have just carried it in.” 

Nick thinks of everyone here, Chad is probably the least qualified to say, and that includes Curt, who hasn’t played since 2012, but who at least watches all of Kyle’s games. 

Chad’s used to big ice and lots of time with the puck and a low ceiling of talent. 

Nick does not say that out loud. 

“I think if you’re not taking corner hits, you’re not working hard enough,” says Chad, who probably hasn’t taken a real corner hit for over five years. 

Kyle shifts back and forth, head tipping like he wants to say something. 

“Especially you. You can’t slack off.” Chad pockets the phone. 

“I don’t slack off,” Kyle says, but it’s quiet. 

And what’s more, Nick adds, inside his head, he works harder to be where he is than you ever have, you petty, pin-headed, small-dicked motherfucker. 

Chad laughs. “I’ve seen you pushed off plenty of pucks.” He drops a hand on Kyle’s shoulder like this is all good fun. 

That’s enough. Nick starts, “Okay, you know what – ” 

Jonny appears at his side, and stealth-elbows Nick in the ribs, hard. “Hey boys. What’s up?” 

Chad gives him an up and down glance. “Just reminding Kyle the value of not being – soft.” He drops the ‘T’ on soft, _sof._ And whether he means it as a specific parody of Michel Therrien, or as an indictment of French-Canadians in general, Nick doesn’t know. But he says it looking right at Jonny. 

Jonny cracks his neck and smiles like a shark that’s tasted blood. Nick holds his breath – but all Jonny says is, “I hope you’re hungry. Aunt Martha says food soon.” He gestures grandly, pointedly, with his drink. 

They take up one end of the table all by themselves. Jonny puts himself in the seat directly across from Chad, because he is, when you get down to it, a man of his word. Nick is to Jonny’s right, across from Kyle. To Nick’s right is Matt, who is across from Curt. A good crowd. Dinner, Nick thinks, will be fine. 

And it is. Right up until this point: 

From her place several seats down, Nick’s mom smiles at Jonny. Raising her voice just enough to be heard, she says, “And what are your plans for after your visit to Minnesota?” 

“I’m going to visit a friend in New York for a couple days,” Jonny answers. He turns and faces Chad directly. “Then I’m hoping to spend some time with my sister and her wife, in Montreal.” 

Chad narrows his eyes. 

“That sounds wonderful,” Lynn says. Nick’s not sure if she’s ever been to New York; he’s fairly certain she’s never been to Montreal, and has never expressed a desire to go to either, but she makes her enthusiasm sound convincing. 

Jonny smiles, honestly and clearly happy. “It will be. I miss them over the season. But this was – ” He nods, conciliatory, at Nick. “This was nice too.” 

Chad, never one to let a nice moment pass undisrupted, makes a loud, skeptical noise. “Bullshit, I bet you can’t wait to stop slumming it out here in the country. Slick, city kid like you? I bet you can’t wait to get out of here.” 

Jonny stops talking. His gaze swings back to Chad, and his face takes on an expression Nick recognizes from playing over 400 games alongside him. A look that says he’s sizing someone up, and finding them lacking. 

Jonny lifts an eyebrow, like he’s just waiting for Chad to realize he’s a spray-tanned loudmouth sitting in a suburb fifteen miles outside a major metropolis, and then, so slow he makes it seem like he has all the time in the world, so slow it’s like he knows no other soul would dare interrupt, he says, “I’m sorry. You’ve mistaken me for someone who cares about your opinion.” 

This quiets both ends of the table. Everyone, from Matt’s three year old to Aunt Martha, is looking at Chad. 

Chad goes red under his artificial orange tint. 

Nick has just enough time to think: this is not going to end well, before Chad turns sharply away from Jonny and faces Kyle. “This who you’re hanging out with these days?” he asks. Then he reaches over and tugs at Kyle’s collar. “You taking fashion lessons from him, too? That would certainly explain some things.” 

As far as Nick can tell, the only sin Kyle’s shirt is guilty of is, is it isn’t a polo like the rest of his brothers have on. 

Kyle rolls his eyes. “Fuck off.” 

Kyle’s mom starts, “Boys – ” She clears her throat, and Nick can hear the murmur of conversation pick up again at the other end of the table, like everyone has simultaneously made a decision to talk over the unpleasantness. 

Chad says, “I hope you don’t dress like that where management can see you.” 

Kyle goes still. 

“It makes a difference, you know.” 

He’s so full of shit. Nick says, “Management doesn’t give a fuck what he wears.” 

Kyle glares at him. “Don’t you start.” 

Which is unfair. Nick is just trying to help. 

Chad scoffs. “Well, it’s certainly not going to do him any good, dressing like a faggot.” 

Curt cuts in with, “Don’t call my brother a faggot.” 

Kyle’s dad says, “I think that’s enough – ” 

Chad ignores him, leaning behind Kyle to look at Curt instead. “Curt, the adults are talking. When you can pay for your own car insurance, maybe you can participate in the conversation.” 

Kyle rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Chad.” 

Chad shrugs. “I’m just trying to help you. If you go on like this, you’re just gonna get cut. Or blackballed. You can’t look like a fag, or people are going to realize – ” 

Curt sets his fork down. “I said, don’t call him that.” The look he gives him makes the temperature in the whole yard drop, the barometric crash like a storm racing in. 

Chad opens his mouth. 

Whatever it is, Curt doesn’t let him get it out. Reaching right around Kyle, he grabs Chad off the bench, and both of them go crashing to the grass. 

Everyone stands up and starts talking and between the furious pitch of Lynn Rau’s voice and Curt and Chad’s yelling, Nick can’t understand a single, goddamn word. 

Everyone, that is, except for Kyle and Jonny. 

Kyle has his face in his hands. 

Jonny reaches for the chicken. 

 

 

It wasn’t much of scuffle, in the end. Curt and Chad were pulled off each other, grass stained and still swearing, but not bloodied. Matt wrapped his arms around Chad’s chest and dragged back, muttering a long litany of what sounded like very old complaints. Curt was still red and spitting mad, and so Kyle had volunteered to drive him home. Nick, sensing their cue, grabbed Jonny by the sleeve and tugged him after Kyle and Curt. 

Curt’s apartment isn’t that big. Jonny lingers in hall near the door, as though he’s unsure whether he’s intruding. Curt shoves past them, disappearing into his bedroom, presumably, Nick guesses, to change out of his torn shirt. The door slams door behind him. 

Kyle winces. He walks into the living room and drops onto the couch. His hands come up to press at his temples, and he leaves them there, half-hiding his face. 

Nick glances over a Jonny, still hovering by the door. He meets Nick’s eyes. He looks concerned. 

Nick looks back at Kyle. He sits with shoulders tightly hunched and head bowed. “Kyle?” 

“That was so stupid.” Kyle’s hands don’t move. His voice is thick. 

Jonny edges cautiously forward. “Right? We didn’t even really get to eat.” His tone is light, Nick can hear the lilt. Nick can hear him trying to get Kyle to laugh. 

“So, incredibly, incredibly stupid.” Kyle chokes on the last word, shoulders curling in. 

Jonny’s expression is pained. He opens his mouth to say something and then seems to think better of it. He tips his head toward the kitchen doorway. Low and to Nick, he says, “I think I’ll just step in there for a minute.” 

Nick nods. He sits down next to Kyle on the couch, and eases a cautious arm around his shoulders. 

Kyle shakes his head. “ _Fuck_.” 

Nick says, “That wasn’t your fault.” 

Kyle laughs, sounding half-choked. “I just – ” His hand rises and falls, a sharp, bewildered gesture. “I don’t know what I was supposed to do. Should I have said something earlier? Should I not have said anything at all? Should I have just left before it got bad?” He looks at Nick. “Should I have not gone home at all?” 

“No, come on.” Nick pulls him tight up against his side. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

Kyle’s voice is bitter. “Why is this still so hard? When is it going to get easier?” 

His voice makes Nick feel desperate to do something, anything. He presses Kyle hard up against him. Presses his own face against the top of Kyle’s head. “People are always going to say stupid stuff. You’re amazing and I love you. Exactly how you are, however you want to be.” 

Kyle tips his head back to look up at him. There’s a shine of unshed tears in his eyes, and such a sharp ache written across his face, that Nick feels panicked. Desperate to do something, and it’s a horrible feeling, when the problem feels so vast. When it’s something Nick can’t do anything about. 

“I know.” Kyle rubs his eyes. “I know I shouldn’t let it get to me. But I just get – he says something and I get so pissed off. I feel like I’m twelve years old, all over again.” He pauses, voice lowering. “And it pisses me off when my parents don’t say anything.” 

It pisses Nick off, too. It pisses Nick off a whole lot. Nick could happily spend the next hour yelling about the inadequacies of the Rau family’s conflict resolution strategies, but they haven’t made it eight years together by Nick not figuring out when what Kyle wants, is for him to listen. 

Nick touches the corner of Kyle’s downturned mouth. He’s so close he can see the scar on his cheek, camouflaged by stubble. The tiny lines at the corner of his eyes, and he’s not the boy Nick met a decade ago. And he’s not the unchanging background of Nick’s everyday life. Nick looks at what’s right in front of him. Sharp and so clear. “You’re so beautiful,” he says. “And I love you so much.” 

Kyle leans into him, and Nick lets his arms close around him. 

After a minute of quiet, Jonny peers out of the kitchen. “Is it safe to come out? Did you have your moment?” 

Kyle lifts his head from Nick’s shoulder and squints at Jonny. “I still don’t know why you’re here.” He waves Jonny forward, sighing. “But yeah, I think I’m done.” 

Jonny comes out of the kitchen with a plate of brownies in his hand. “I found these.” 

Nick didn’t really get a chance to eat much, either. He takes two. Between bites he asks, “Why are these so cold?” 

Jonny shrugs. “I don’t know. They were in the freezer.” 

The door to the bedroom cracks open and Curt comes out. He stops in front of Kyle. “Sorry. I just needed a minute. I’m not pissed at you. I’m just pissed at him, and mom and dad, and, like, everything, really.” He sits and bumps his shoulder against Kyle’s. “Sorry for making a scene.” 

Kyle bumps him back. “No worries.” He pauses. “Thanks for taking taeknowdo for all those years.” 

Curt laughs. “Yeah? You think it helped?” 

Kyle can’t keep a straight face. “No,” he says. “Not at all.” He grins at Curt, a million and one things pass between them that aren’t being said aloud. 

Curt drapes an arm around Kyle’s shoulders. He shakes his head. Then, looking down, he spots the brownies, and his eyes get wide. “Oh,” he says. 

 

 

“I’m so high. I’m so high.” Nick is on the floor. The floor is so wonderful. The floor is filled with so many interesting things. Nick and the floor are in a state of transcendent oneness and connection. A state of ecstatic focus and affection known only to Nick on the floor, Young Jeezy in the midst of creating his art, and also maybe, like cats who have been given a bit of thread. This is home. Nick is never leaving. “I’m _so_ high.” 

Floating in from somewhere far above him, Kyle’s voice asks, “Are you okay?” 

Nick opens his eyes and looks up at Kyle’s face peering down at him. “Yes.” All of the parts of Nick are great. Some of them feel like they’re floating far away from his body, but great. Except for maybe his right testicle, which is still roughly two times it’s normal size. “I just need to be close to the floor.” He pats the spot next to him. “Come down here with me.” 

Kyle laughs but lowers himself down to the floor. He stretches out on his side, hands folded under his cheek. He smiles at Nick, bright and clear and in focus in a way that feels new. A newness that says maybe Nick has been letting some things slip. 

Nick says, “Hi, baby.” 

From the couch, Jonny says, “You say these things just to hurt me.” 

Nick pats Kyle’s cheek. “Shut up, Jonny. I had to watch you flirt with Aunt Martha earlier.” 

Kyle rolls to look at Jonny. “You were flirting with my Aunt Martha?” Then he makes a face like, yeah, he could see that. “Well. Sorry we cut that short for you.” 

Jonny waves a generous hand. “It’s your family.” 

Curt is on the other couch, leg draped over the arm, his foot kicking idly through the air. “Eh. If we stayed any longer, mom was just gonna start in on when Lisa and I are getting married. You know how it is.” 

Curt and Kyle sigh in unison. 

Nick closes his eyes. The quiet feels good and warm and comfortable. 

“We should order pizza,” Curt says, and his words sound like they’re dropping one by one from a great height into a pool of water. 

“I need to check in for my flight,” Jonny says. But neither one of them moves. 

Nick pats the floor, deeply, wordlessly grateful for its steady presence. He takes Kyle’s hand in his and focuses on how warm it is. How, with his eyes close, it feels like he can trace each and every individual ridge in Kyle’s fingerprints. 

Kyle sighs, long and slow. “I’m going to take a Pilates class,” he announces. He has so much defiance in his voice, you’d think he was declaring his intent to cheer for the Packers. 

Jonny nods. “I dated a Pilates instructor once. Good choice.” 

Curt stretches out his arm to show a thumbs up gesture. 

Kyle tucks an arm under his head, staring up at the ceiling. “Chad wouldn’t approve.” 

“Fuck Chad,” Curt says, before Nick can get it together to respond. “He’s overinvested.” 

They lie in the quiet and Nick meditates on that. _Fuck Chad._ Good mantra. Is Pilates the one that has mantras? Maybe that’s yoga. No matter. Solid mantra. 

Nick runs his fingertips across the floorboards. If Kyle wants to learn Pilates then he should. And that’s that. Or – no. Kyle can learn Pilates and Nick will also learn, at the very least, _about_ Pilates. Nick will pay attention, and get him – what kind of accessories does Pilates require? There must be books. Or pads? Maybe some kind of mat? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that if Kyle cares about it, and so, Nick will too. At least a little. At least enough to show he’s paying attention. 

Kyle rolls back onto his side. His eyes study Nick’ face and a loose smile plays around his mouth. “You’ve been quiet.” 

Nick says, “Tell me about the whale.” 

Kyle blinks, frowning at Nick in surprise. He considers for a moment. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, listen.” 

Then he falls silent, lips pursed. He settles onto his back, hands resting lightly on his chest. “I think – ” One hand gestures toward the ceiling, “ – I just think, like, the whale probably already has a name for itself. And it's wrong to try to force some name on it that it never wanted. And also whales come up here to calve. So it's probably a she anyway.” He pauses again. “I don’t know. I guess I just want it to do well, and go where it’s supposed to go.” His lips curl. “I guess I want it to prove to people that it knows where it’s going.” 

His words come to halt, and he looks at Nick, trace of an embarrassed smile on his face but eyes utterly serious. 

Nick loves this man. “That’s why you’ve been keeping tabs on that whale?” 

Kyle shrugs, but his grin is growing. “Yeah.” 

Nick flips onto his stomach and pushes himself up on his elbows. Now it’s his turn to feel embarrassed. “I thought, you know, I thought maybe it was because it was trapped. I thought it was maybe a longing-for-freedom, want-to-head-back-out-to-sea kinda thing?” 

With a great deal of emphasis, Kyle says, “What?” 

Nick’s throat hurts. “You know, like – ” He makes a helpless, swimming hand gesture – “like, I thought it was about leaving.” 

Kyle’s face changes when he gets it. “No.” He shakes his head. “No, no no. Nothing like that.” 

“Awesome.” Nick smiles, because in that moment, everything is. “Awesome. I love you, however you want to be, I love you.” 

 

 

They make a unanimous decision to cut loose of the Twin Cities a few days early and head out to the lake, where the most complicated personality they’ll have to deal with is the temperamental two-stroke on the motorboat. 

They drop Jonny at airport, and Nick looks at Kyle. “Are you sure we can’t just disappear into the woods?” 

Kyle grips the wheel a little tighter. “Nope. Gotta stop by the house.” He looks at Nick. “Gotta mend some bridges on the way out.” 

Nick grumbles in such a way to indicate he is filing it under not worth arguing about, but lets it go. 

When they pull into his parents’ drive, Kyle turns to him. “Just – maybe let me do the talking, okay?” 

Nick frowns. “If he says anything to you – ” 

“Nick.” Kyle rests a hand on Nick’s chest. He closes his eyes. 

“It’s not okay, what he said.” It takes a lot of work to keep his voice even. 

“I know.” Kyle opens his eyes. “But he’s my brother.” 

Nick doesn’t say anything. How can he, given how many times he’s said: _but he’s my dad._

Kyle squeezes his arm. 

It’s easy enough to make amends with his parents. “We didn’t raise four boys without seeing a few scuffles,” his dad says. “I guess we’ll survive a few more.” He gives them both a hug. 

Kyle’s mom gives them snacks for the road, which is even better. 

And in the yard, while Nick waits by the car, without looking away from his own shoes, Chad says to Kyle, “I just worry about you.” 

Privately, Nick thinks, if these two can reconcile here, then maybe anything and anyone can be reconciled. Whatever magic, peace-making words are spoken, maybe Nick can use them next year. Maybe even get Sasha and Kempe to get along. Because they have to try again next year. There’s always next year; and there’s never anything else to do but pick up, keep moving, and try again. 

“I know.” Kyle’s voice caries across the yard. Nick can see him shifting; Nick can see his hands twist in front of him before they retreat to his pockets. “But I’m me. And I’m doing it. I’m playing hockey, so it can be done. I don’t need to be someone else to play. And I’m happy with me. There’s nothing wrong with me.” 

Chad shuffles. He looks up at his brother. A cool breeze kicks up, easing the press of the sun and bringing in the smell of pine and wild places. 

“I don’t know why you worry so much.” Kyle shakes his head. He says again, “There’s nothing wrong with me.” 

Chad doesn’t answer, not that Nick can see, or hear over the rustle of leaves. But maybe he does say something. Maybe Nick was just too far away to hear the words. Or maybe he doesn’t say anything at all out loud, but instead lets something be written across his face. Something you’d have to be close to read. Kyle is close. Kyle is looking up at him, just like he always has. 

And there must be something, because Kyle says, “Oh my god.” Voice like a thought breaking open. 

Nick hears that, clear and vivid. And he does see it, when, like a miracle, Chad’s shoulders start to bend. He hears the choking sound Chad’s throat makes as he’s trying not to cry. 

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Kyle says, arms around his brother, words soft, but strong as steel. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” 

 

 

Nick likes this part of the drive. The curves of the road are getting more pronounced as it edges closer and closer to the lake. The trees get taller and close in overhead. “We’re at the pretty part,” he informs Kyle. 

Kyle has his book open. Stomach of iron. “Seen it,” he says. 

“Bald eagle.” Nick points. 

“I have like five pages left and then you can have my full and undivided attention.” 

Nick shrugs. He counts the birds and the cattails on his own for a few more minutes. 

A minute or two later, Kyle sighs and closes the book, apparently satisfied by the thrilling conclusion of _What Your CPA Isn’t Telling You._

The trees make the light flash and scatter into pools that drift across them both. “You know,” Kyle says. “We really ought to get married.” 

Nick does not run the car off the road. He does say, “If you're proposing to me for tax reasons, I'm gonna throw you out of this moving car.” 

Kyle laughs. “I’m proposing because I love you and I want to spend rest of life with you.” He pauses. “The tax reasons are more like a side benefit.” 

When Nick looks over, there is a slightly guilty curl to his grin. But he’s looking at Nick. He’s smiling. 

Nick smiles back. “Well, in that case.” 

Kyle reaches a hand out and laces his fingers through Nick’s. He rolls his window down and out of the corner of his eye, Nick watches the wind lift the hair off his forehead. The whole car smells like deep, quiet green. 

Nick always dreamed home would look something like this: the clean summer smell of the lake and towering pine overhead. He always thought home would wear a quiet blanket of snow in winter. He thought home might mean teaching kids to love the game that has been so good to him, and would be weekends watching college hockey, pizza from Mesa, and nights of waiting for the 2 to snake its way up 10th. 

And that will be a part of it. But maybe home isn’t static. Maybe home bends and shifts with the light. 

Because home is also, right now, smiling at him from across the car. And everyone changes, and adjusts, and grows. If you pay attention, you can watch it happen, but if you look away, it can startle you. 

Wheel in his hands, Nick tries imagining those kids he might teach, but maybe they’ll wear jerseys that say: Hileah Senior. Miami Springs. Cooper City. South Plantation. 

Home could look like this: the neighbors will plant bamboo along the fence line and Kyle will plot their murder. Home will have a thick lawn of St. Augustine, crossed by darting lizards, and creaky-voiced grackles, and maybe the occasional startling perfect whiteness of an egret. 

Home will mean watching the wood of the deck go gray, and themselves go gray, and their bodies changing, and their minds changing, all to the tune of tree frogs and mourning doves. 

Home will mean Kyle with an old man paunch or less hair, or shirt unbuttoned down to his navel, standing around in the morning, drinking thick, sweet coffee. 

Home will mean complaining about the kids-these-days at gay spring break, and that one or both of them finally accepts the invitation to be on the board of the Stonewall Museum, and trips down to Wynwood, and Nick trying and failing and trying to pronounce _azucar_ and _guayaba._

Home will be the spreading nest of stilt roots of the mangrove, because sometimes water must be filtered from the salt. And home will be slash pine and bluestem, snakeherb and coontie, because some things must be forged in fire. 

But home will be flavored by hibiscus and guava, and when the torrent of their lives becomes a tide – becomes something with rhythms that can be predicted – it will have its own kind of beauty. And they’ll fill it with their own kind of love. 

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Because it will only ever exist in my mind (AND HEART), here is the roster for my imaginary '18-19 Florida Panthers:
> 
> Huby - Barkov - Kempe  
> Crouse - Bjugstad - Smith  
> Rau - Trocheck - Harper  
> Brickley - Howden - Shaw 
> 
> (Lammikko, Wilson)
> 
> Matheson - Ekblad  
> Kulikov - Petrovic  
> Olsen - Acolatse
> 
> Brittain  
> Montembeault

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Everyday Electricity (the Everyday Travesties remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10593840) by [othersideofthis (hikaru)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaru/pseuds/othersideofthis)




End file.
